I Guess I‘ll Never Forget You, No Matter How Hard I Try

Existe várias formas de matar alguém e a pior dela é esquecendo-a. Esquecer do qual incrível e especial aquela pessoa é, do quando divertida e inspiradora, e do quão bom foi amar ela.

life would be so different if i was a bookshop owner in a small village near some forest, who has a secret affair with the local poet

in my sylvia plath, tortured poet, the lakes, jo march, dead poets society, albert camus, folklore, evermore, metamorphosis, dostovesky era

“Kat is back”

She is breathtaking 🔥

ctto: @barbieferrreira on ig

In the depth of those words, i intend to write a letter to myself but it came out as a death note instead, i was in awe-destruction. These words carry heavy bricks and burning rage, where should i put it down? I wanted to write about what a fine and a good day looks like but then i remember Van Gogh's saying, 'this sadness will last forever' and so i hold the pen and start pouring blood, spilled on the pages of my dear diary. These kind of stuff happens when you cant pull the trigger. Millions of thoughts written yet none could be able to elucidate the unsaid., it always went down the grave coverted in the dead bones.

- Marium.

Name moodboard for Diana Requested by @d14n4ol

It’s weird .physically I’m in my teens but mentally- spiritually if you will, I feel so old. So so old. As though I’ve lived a thousand lives and experienced a thousand scenarios each leaving me exhausted by the end . I feel the weight of all those lives sometimes; When I’m alone in my room . Gaze switching between each wall and then finally , meeting my ceiling-Where my mind explodes with thoughts while simultaneously remaining eerily barren.quite.empty.

Distance on the old countryside. Away from the agony, the dread, and the soul devouring thoughts. Allowing the mind to cling to beautiful sights, crafts older than the world, and the sound of falling leaves.

i am so much older than i thought i was. it's as if one day i decided to run too far from the sidewalk where my chalk drawings are and forgot to come back. now i wander around foreign cities because maps do not guide me home anymore. i dine in timeworn cafés and write poems on discarded grocery store receipts hoping to brush my fingertips over those stolen years, but it only drifts further away each day. tender is the spine that bears one's childhood ghosts and this misplaced sorrow thrashes beneath the very skin i can never step out of.

If you show me something you've not shown anyone else, tell me secrets you've not told anyone else and take me to places you've not taken anyone else to, best believe I'm going to publish a novel about how beautiful you are.

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